


In All But Name

by AnObviousFact



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Also Understandings, Arthur Hugs Are Best Hugs, Douglas Has No Idea He's Paternal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, MJN Air Is A Family, Martin Is Bad At Feelings, Misunderstandings, Paternal Douglas, arthur is precious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3716818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnObviousFact/pseuds/AnObviousFact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Douglas is confused, Martin is a mess, Arthur is wise, and Carolyn is not paying for dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In All But Name

**Author's Note:**

> So, what am I doing? I don't have time for this! But I posted a story earlier, and all you who might have commented or kudosed or bookmarked got me all riled up and excited. So then I wrote this instead of ALL THE OTHER THINGS. You're ruining my life and I love you. So this is both a thank you note and the mad ramblings of an irresponsible, sleep-deprived professional. But please just read it as a thank you note.
> 
> Also, Cabin Pressure. It's just the best, isn't it?

 

            It had been an… _interesting_ day. Notable in that everything went according to plan for once. It was a short, no-frills cargo flight. A quick hop, unload, and then back. No fires, imaginary or otherwise, no troublesome passengers, no overnight stays in horrifying hotels, no diverting, and G-ERTI, the fine old girl, hadn't thrown any fits. Only clear skies and smooth sailing.

            The interesting part hadn’t really been the rather remarkable and almost—but of course not quite— _disappointing_ lack of catastrophes, though. No, most interesting had been the behavior of MJN Air’s illustrious _commandant suprême_. Douglas never would have thought he’d miss Martin’s _usual_ various psychoses: the superiority complex, the general anxiety, the delusions of grandeur, the ridiculous fantasy that he might eventually beat Douglas at something—oh, he did sort of enjoy that one—but in any case, it seemed Martin had grown a whole new crop of symptoms to add to his delightful personality.

            And they were _confusing_.

            From the moment Martin walked in that morning—well, from the moment _Douglas_ walked in, as he was a smidge late—Martin had been a bundle of nerves and mood swings and just…altogether bizarre. He’d be standoffish and snappy one minute, then apologetic, then forcedly, almost painfully nice and accommodating and cheerful. Then he’d clamp down on that, too, and go all surly and stoic again. Like Martin himself couldn’t figure out what he was feeling. Like there were several Martin’s within him warring for control. Blowhard Captain Martin. Helpful, Kind Martin. Broody Martin. Empty, Gazing-off-into-space Martin. Absurdly Agreeable Martin. Shut-up-Douglas Martin.

            Arthur obviously noticed as well. When he was up in the flight deck, he’d glance concernedly back and forth between them or shoot Douglas exaggerated, meaningful looks that both Douglas and Martin ignored. Arthur happily played games with them when Absurdly Agreeable Martin all but tripped over himself to be a good sport or Blowhard Captain Martin graciously _deigned_ to do so, but even then Douglas could feel Arthur’s tension and confusion and had no way of remedying it. He couldn’t figure it out any better than Arthur could. And wasn’t _that_ thought simply shudder-worthy.

            Douglas had decided just to let it go on. Chalked it up to an off day. After all, Carroll’s Cheshire Cat could easily have been talking about MJN when he’d said, “We’re all mad here,” and that was something one had to accept if one wanted to continue on adventuring in Carolyn's flying, ramshackle wonderland. Douglas _had_ tried at one point to carefully probe whatever wound Martin was sporting in the form of a teasing, offhanded, “Do you know, I think they call it ‘dissociative identity disorder’ nowadays.”

            Martin had started a bit in his seat where he’d been staring at nothing and asked, “Hm?”

            “Instead of ‘multiple personality disorder.’ Thought it might interest you to know.”

            It took a second of confused pondering before Martin’s curiosity turned to obvious understanding, and that brow had locked down into a stormy scowl. And they were back to Surly, Stroppy Martin.

            “Shut up, Douglas.”

            No, that’s right. That one was Shut-up-Douglas Martin. His favorite.

            Douglas managed to soldier through anyway, his confidence that Martin’s problem, whatever it was, would sort itself out being the thing keeping him from getting too irritated. He’d built up enough of a buffer at this point to manage his friend’s idiosyncrasies, at least on a good day, and he knew if he let himself go much beyond picking at Martin a little, he’d only aggravate the issue, and they’d both wind up angry.

            The thing that _really_ tried his patience, though, was the _looks_. It was very difficult to be subtle—even for not-Martins—when one spent several hours sitting right next to someone. So every time Martin looked over when he thought Douglas was concentrating on something else with this _look_ like…like he was disappointed or frustrated or, most likely, wanted to say something and just _couldn’t_ , those were the times when Douglas “Patience-of-a-saint-honestly” Richardson nearly snapped.

            He had finally barked out a “ _What_?” near the end of the return journey.

            Martin had shrunk back a little, embarrassed and melancholy and with that same disappointment. “Nothing. Sorry. I’ve got to use the loo. You have control.”

            Did he though? _Did he?_

            Martin was gone rather a long time and only came back when Douglas made a somewhat-bristly and less-than-good-natured cabin announcement about beginning their descent and whether any reigning captains onboard who may have gone to the loo _over half an hour ago_ might be interested in abandoning one throne for another. Martin’s face was pinched and burning red when he returned and took his seat without uttering any more words than were explicitly called for by the manual.

            As soon as he could after they landed, Martin was out the door and headed for the Portakabin, double time. Well. That was fine then. Let him have his sulk. If he didn’t want to talk about whatever was obviously bothering him, there was nothing Douglas could do about it. No reason at all both of them should be bothered when the one who was bothered couldn’t be bothered to share. Douglas sighed and rubbed his brow around a headache he hadn’t realized he had.

            He sat in his chair for a bit. Simply being in a plane. The control panel had long since lost its wonder and had become something of a comfort. Something that he knew and wouldn’t change. Something he was inarguably _good_ at. Something that didn’t make him feel worn out or washed up. It was silly and sentimental in a way he’d never dream of letting anyone see, but all told, he simply liked what he was. Even during the times he wasn’t overly fond of _who_ he was, he was always proud of _what_ he was. He took his time gathering his things and himself together before leaving the flight deck.

            Instead of Arthur buzzing about, doing the hoovering and various other post-flight chores with a combination of well-practiced know-how and ever-fresh zeal, Douglas spied MJN’s only steward sitting cross-legged on the floor in the aisle, his back against the outer seat of row four. The young man’s brow was furrowed in a concentrated effort, and he was staring lasers straight through the base of the seat across from him.

            “Arthur,” Douglas called as he approached.

            Arthur’s head popped up, ever attentive. “Yes, Douglas?”

            “What are you doing?”

            “ _Thinking_ ,” he declared, quite serious.

            Douglas felt the corners of his mouth turn up gently in amusement. “Oh, well. Far be it from me to interrupt the industrious philosopher. But, as the realm of deep thinking hasn’t traditionally been your chosen milieu, may I ask what you’re thinking so diligently _about_?”

            “Yeah, of course you can, Douglas,” Arthur said a bit absently, lacking his normal enthusiasm. And for heaven’s sake, if Martin’s condition was catching, Douglas was thoroughly done. “You can always ask. I don’t mind.”

            Douglas raised an eyebrow and obliged, “Arthur, what are you thinking?”

            “I was thinking about _names_.”

            “Names?”

            “Last names, mostly. Well,” he explained, “it started off, I was thinking about Skip. And then I started thinking about his name. His real name, though, which isn’t Skip at all. And then, well, then I was thinking about all of us.” The brow-furrow was returning.

            “Do explain.”

            “I just thought maybe a name says a lot about a person. But I don’t know how it could, given that you get your name when you’re only a baby. But, I was thinking about Skip and the rest of us, and…”

            “And you’ve decided Martin’s name is distasteful?” Martin would love that.

            Arthur shook his head glumly. “Not so much distasteful as…sad.” Douglas was honestly a bit at a loss for what to do with that, but Arthur kept on going, brightening a bit. “I like my last name, though. _Shappey_ ,” he said, and it couldn’t have sounded grander if he’d been reading it off a marquee. “It’s sort of like _shiny_ and _happy._ And there’s Mum of course, who’s _Knapp_ -Shappey, which I like to think of as, she’s shiny and happy after she’s had a nice nap. But then, you’re _Richardson_. And all I can think for that is…”

            “‘Son of Richard’?”

            “Right.” He looked dubiously hopeful. “Is that your dad’s name?”

            “You’re asking if my father’s name was ‘Richard Richardson’?”

            “Yes.”

            “No. It wasn’t.”

            “Oh.” The disappointment was palpable, but as always only lasted a split second. “Well, then I can’t really get that one to make much sense then, can I. It’s a strong, proud name, though,” he assured, “and it does suit you perfectly fine. But Skipper. His last name is _Crieff_. And it sounds very sad to me because it’s like if you mixed crying and grief together, and it just seems so miserable and unfair.” He dropped his hands to his knees and hung his head with a huff.

            “You think Martin is upset because his surname has predestined it must be so?”

            “Well, no, I think Skip is upset because he’s scared you’re going to leave MJN,” he said, quite matter-of-fact.

            And in response to that, Douglas could only, incredulously, “ _What_?”

            Panic steamrolled across the steward’s face. “Ah, no! No, I mean… Douglas, that was meant to be a secret; I wasn’t supposed to say that! You didn’t… I never said it, and you never heard it. I think… Did you… Can I take it back? I’m taking it back! So it never even…”

            “No take backs, Arthur, sorry,” he said, and his own mind was whirring at least as quickly as Arthur’s frantic backpedalling. _Skip is upset because he’s scared you’re going to leave MJN._ How the devil…

            “ _Ohh_ ,” Arthur groaned mournfully, burying his face in his hands. “Douglas, he made me _promise_. He didn’t even mean to tell me. It was an accident. And I promised I wouldn’t say. Not to you or Mum or anyone. Can't we just forget about it? Please?”

            It would’ve been far easier to let the boy keep what was left of his confidence actually. To say “That’s all right, then,” and continue on his way, blissfully uninvolved. By all accounts, it probably would’ve even been nobler. But for all Douglas Richardson had a sly charisma and a cunning sort of dignity and an obviously enviable charm, he couldn’t say he’d ever bothered with nobility unless it suited him for some greater scheme.

            “Well,” he said, and set his flight bag down so he could lower himself to the narrow aisle floor across from Arthur with his usual grace, “seems to me the cat’s already out of the bag, I'm afraid. Now, you _could_ hold to your promise—a very gallant option, to be sure—or you _could_ make it easier on all of us and resign yourself to the fact that I’m going to find out anyway, so you may as well tell me now.”

            “Skip _really_ didn’t want me to,” Arthur hedged.

            “Skip really never stood a chance.”

            Arthur let out a defeated, hurricane of a sigh. “All right. Well. It’s just that he was acting so…up-and-down-y all day. More than usual. So of course I got him alone in the galley and asked him what he was thinking about.” Of course, he would. “He said it was nothing. He always does, you know, at first. So then I went through the list of things.”

            “The List of Things.”

            “Yeah. You know. Because Skipper’s got a lot of things going on that could go wrong at any time. So I’ve got a list. Not a real, written down list. Just a sort of checklist I keep in my head for when Skip’s acting…not quite Skippish. Which is rare, though. He’s normally _very_ Skippish.”

            “A point with which I unreservedly agree. So this list,” he tried to keep him on point.

            “Right. So I went through the checklist. I like to pretend it’s like when you and him do the pre-flight and the post-landing ones. Only instead of _fuel_ and _landing gear_ and all the rest, I ask him about his van and his flat and his Icarus job. Then it’s…let’s see," he tapped his lip, "I asked him about his family. Then his students at the shared house. Well, they’re not _his_ students, I don’t mean. But, you know. The students who live with him. Then I asked whether someone had been mean to him. People are sometimes. But he said it was all fine. So I asked if you or Mum or I had done anything that might have hurt his feelings.

“And he sort of…he got a bit angrysad and said that _Douglas_ —you—could hurt his feelings as much as _Douglas_ —you—want, because _Douglas_ —again, that’s you—won’t be around much longer anyway. And after that part he turned a bit red like he does and got embarrassed. Not embarrassed the way he does when it’s funny.” Arthur fidgeted his hands in his lap. “It wasn’t funny at all.”

            “No, I don’t suppose it would be,” he mused, and took a moment to think as he stretched his long legs out across the aisle, crossing them at the ankle near Arthur’s knee. “Arthur, why does Martin think I won’t be around? Based on that conversation, an overhearer might assume he plans to bump me off.”

            “Oh, Skip would never do that, Douglas. I mean aside from the fact that I don’t think he’d ever be able to murder anyone at all, he really wants you here. He likes flying with you. I mean, sometimes he really hates you,” he allowed. “But he never _really_ hates you. You’re like his best friend, only you’re even better because you know things about being a pilot and a captain and just about everything really. I don’t think he’s ever had a best friend before, not a proper one. And it was nice because you _had_ to come and be here with us, even if you didn’t want to, because it’s your job. Not like regular friends who can just sort of disappear when they get tired of you.”

            Arthur blinked suddenly, like a thought had occurred to him. “So it was like, it was sort of like being a family. Like you were the much, much older brother or the brilliant uncle who always comes at Christmas and on birthdays, and when he’s _not_ there, even if it is Christmas or your birthday, it just seems less Christmassy. Or birthday-y. And frankly…frankly _I_ don’t want you to leave either. Skip won’t tell you, and Mum—well, Mum doesn’t know, so she _can’t_ tell you, but even if she could, even though I know she would want to, I don’t think she would—but I will. Douglas, I would really, _really_ rather you stay.”

            Douglas could only look at the earnest face, and his mouth actually floundered a bit while he tried to process all those words from the young man across from him. All those words and what they meant, and Arthur’s utter incapability of being for a moment anything but sincere. Douglas didn’t even have it in him to try to sound cavalier or sarcastic when he asked, “Arthur, where is it you think I’m going?” And somehow, to his own ears, his voice sounded almost helpless.

            “Oh. Well. Skip got a hold of the pass code for your voicemail. I don’t know how he did it. But he was going to try to change your outgoing message recording to something embarrassing, you know, to get you back for all the prank messages you left on his voicemail last week.”

            There. That sounded normal. “I admire his initiative.”

            “Yes. But it sort of went wrong when there was a message saved on there from someone from EasyJet offering you an interview. Which he listened to. Oh, I probably shouldn’t have told you that either. Maybe. I-I don’t know if that was part of the secret or not. Anyway, Skip said that if you were interviewing, then you're sure to get the job.”

            “Am I,” he considered.

            “Of course, Douglas. You’re brilliant.” He said it in that way as to imply he thought it was patently obvious and should be so to everyone. “Skip thinks so, too. That’s why it’s so hard. For him, I mean. I mean, it’s hard for me, too, the idea of you leaving forever. You’ve been here a long time, since even before Skipper came along, and I’ll miss you very much. It makes me...quite sad, honestly,” he sighed, and it was indeed a sad sound. Arthur Shappey might be the only person Douglas knew who could look someone straight in the eye and say something like that.

           “But I can talk to you about it, and that’s better at least. And after you tell Mum and it isn’t a secret anymore, I can talk to her, too. I told Skip he ought to talk to you about it. He didn’t want to, though. You know how he is. That’s why he was so mixed up today. He was trying so hard to pretend it won’t matter to him when you leave, even though it really does. And then he would be nice because maybe if he was nice enough, you might want to stay. But then he thought that was counter to not-caring, and he _really_ wanted to not care, so he’d go all grumpy again. He does, though. Care I mean. He’s like…he’s like a bottle of orange Tango, getting shook up and shook up. And even though he tries to keep it all bottled in, it’s just a clear plastic, so you can see his insides are getting all fizzy and stormy and ready to explode.”

            Douglas pressed his lips together. “An apt metaphor, I should think.”

            “He’s not very good at talking,” Arthur said lowly. “Well, he _is_ , only not…not all the time. Not about the things that get him shook up. He only tells me things sometimes, and only then because he doesn’t mean to.”

            Yes, there was that. For all his…everything else about him, there was something about Arthur that made one inadvertently spill all of one’s guts from time to time. It was uncanny really, the way the young man could just bumble his way into people’s best-kept secrets. Douglas theorized that Arthur was sort of like that well-loved, stuffed something that everyone seemed to have had at some point during childhood. A living man-version of the teddy bear or the rabbit or the little dog. Even being fully aware that the man couldn’t hold a secret to save his life couldn’t completely counteract the fact that he did have that guileless, ever-cheerful face and the round brown eyes that could’ve been buttons, and that he always seemed very soft and safe and trustworthy.

            “Oh wait, I’ve got it! Robin Hood!” Arthur all but shouted, apropos of nothing.

            “Pardon me?”

            “I mean not, _Robin Hood_ Robin Hood. Like _you’re_ not Robin Hood. Obviously. None of us are because we’re not outlaws or thieves or heroes or, as far as I know, any use whatever with a bow and arrow.” He giggled a bit, suddenly. “Can you imagine it, though, if we were? It would be…”

            “Arthur?”

            “Right. I just meant, you’re like King Richard. From _Robin Hood._ It’s a Disney film from _way_ back. And you see, there’s this great lion called King Richard who’s gone away, and ever since he has, everyone’s been miserable and poor and hungry. And there’s this other, meaner, less majestic lion who takes over while King Richard’s away, and he just makes everything worse. That’s what it would be like if you left. Maybe we’d get a new first officer, and maybe he wouldn’t be all evil and petty like Prince John was in the film; maybe he’d be brilliant, but still, he wouldn’t be _you_ , would he, and that’s miserable enough.”

            Douglas tilted his head slightly to the right, regarding the steward carefully.

            “Oh,” Arthur said quickly to explain. “I mean, that’s how you’re like your name. Richardson. Like…like the good King Richard. Sort of.” He smiled a bit, unaccountably shy all the sudden. “I knew I’d get it. Eventually. If I kept thinking.”

            “Yes,” Douglas said, and something like affection had somehow crept into his voice. “You can be remarkably astute when it suits, can’t you.”

            Arthur’s shy smile expanded into the impossibly wide, sunny thing that would’ve been a joke on anyone else. “Suppose I can.”

            “And you are a good friend.”

            “Do you think so?”

            “I do. And I think Martin would say so, as well.”

            “You think he would?" he asked, nervous but still pleased. "Even if I can’t keep a secret?”

            “Even so. Arthur, can _I_ tell _you_ a secret?”

            “Yes!” His expression shifted from entirely excited to entirely unsure. “Oh wait, maybe you’d better not.” And then right back to entirely excited. “But yes!” Arthur Shappey did not have micro expressions. His expressions were the facial equivalent of supernovas.

            “At this juncture, I currently have no plans to leave MJN Air.”

            There was a gasp and a sudden scrambling and a high-pitched “ _Really_?” and the elbow that briefly impacted his ribs was neither expected nor pleasant. But then there was an airline steward stuck to his chest like a great, over-affectionate starfish. “Oh, Douglas, that’s wonderful; it would’ve ruined absolutely everything if you’d left!”

            Douglas had known Arthur a relatively long time. It was hardly the first instance he’d looked down to find he had a spot of Arthur on his jacket. The boy was awfully huggy. But there were times when…well…best not try to fight the tidal wave. “Yes, all right, _all right_.” And he resignedly squeezed him back, just for a little.

            “I’ve _got_ to tell Skip,” Arthur said happily. “He won’t be so, so… _crying_ and _grief_  then. He’ll be…he’ll be…”

            “Skippish?” Douglas supplied.

            “Exactly! Aw, brilliant Douglas!”

            “Hm. Well then, come on.” He peeled Arthur off and pushed himself to his feet, shouldering his bag as he did.

            “What? Where?” Even while asking the questions, Arthur took the hand Douglas offered without hesitation, and Douglas pulled him right up. “To where, Douglas? Are we going to tell him _now?”_

            “Just follow me.”

            “But I’ve still got the tidying up to do,” he hesitated.

            “There weren’t any passengers, Arthur. There was hardly opportunity for the place to get messy. Leave it. Or do it later if Carolyn’s gets her hackles up about it. In any case, come on.” He led the way through the cabin and out of the plane. At the Portakabin, he held the door open, following Arthur inside.

            Carolyn was at her desk—the largest most imposing desk, or as large and imposing as a scuffed up desk in the back corner of a single room portable building could be. She had her readers slid down on her nose as she worked at something tedious on the computer. Martin was at his own desk with his head propped on his hand, scribbling at his paperwork with an uncharacteristic level of distraction. He didn’t look up as they entered, but he moved his hand and sat forward in his seat, suddenly very absorbed in his task.

            “Fantastic run, _gang_ ,” Douglas schmoozed in his false, overly cool, character voice. “What say we take this merry party into town and get something to eat? All four of us. Can’t you hear it? The exciting Fitton night life beckons us with its siren song.”

            “Oh, brilliant, Douglas! Can we go to that place that’s got the go karts again? Their chips were _really_ good. Plus, you know, _go karts_.” He could always count on Arthur’s blind enthusiasm.

            “What for?” Carolyn asked suspiciously with her usual blind unenthusiasm.

            “Yes, what-what-what…what for?” Martin echoed with _his_ usual blind…good grief, it sounded rather like fear actually.

            “Evening meal,” Douglas replied. “You know. Dinner. Sometimes referred to as ‘supper.’ Grub. Chow. Food. A banquet, a feast, a non-formal dining occasion.”

            “Fine,” Carolyn drew out, acting opposed for its own sake. “If it’ll shut you up.” And there was a remarkably subtle but sinister twist of the lips as she turned off her computer that meant she was both coldly calculating and wildly happy when she said, “I did like the place with the go karts.” She’d won fifty quid off him that night they’d gone. And by the look in her eyes, one would’ve thought she’d opened a portal upon the Seven Cities of Gold.

            “Oh, as did I, Carolyn. However, I highly doubt they’ve lifted the ban as yet.”

            “I wasn’t _banned_. It was merely a warning,” she demurred, clearly quite proud of herself.

            “A mistake I’m sure we can see remedied this evening. All right. Martin, you’re coming, aren’t you?”

            “I…” he hesitated.

            “Come on, Skip! It’ll be fun.”

            Douglas looked at Martin. “I think it really would be better if you came with us.”

            Martin’s chair scraped back so quickly he nearly toppled out of it as he stood. “I…whoops. I can’t. Can’t. I…um, I have plans. Sorry.” As he spoke, he gathered hat and coat and things, fluttering around like one of those poor birds who flies into the house and can’t figure out how to get out even while the front door’s still wide open. “You…you all have fun then. I’ve got to go, right…oh, look at the time, _right now_. I’ve got to go right now. For the plans. That I have. Big plans. Just…really big. No time to tell you what they are because, well…”

            “Martin…”

            “Bye then.” And he, unlike the birds, found the door, effectively used the door, and quite neatly escaped.

            The three remaining members of MJN Air stood for a moment in silence. Which Carolyn broke. “Douglas. Did you put something in Martin’s coffee?”

            Arthur stared after Martin before turning to look at Douglas plaintively. “Douglas…?”

            “Yes, yes, it’s fine.” And Douglas found himself trying to maintain a certain amount of dignity while rushing out across the car park after a fleeing idiot of an airdot captain. “Martin!” he called as he approached. He absently cursed Carolyn. Of all the days to skimp out on taxi service.

            Martin glanced over his shoulder and quickened his pace from an awkward sort of speed walk to a jog that pretended to not be a jog. “Sorry, Douglas. Late. Really.”

            “Well, you’re going to be later. Come on, you don’t need to run off. If you’re not coming to dinner, there’s something I need to tell you.”

            “You know, you _really_ don’t.”

            Douglas responded with instinctive sarcasm to the note of command in Martin's voice. “Really? Well, _golly_. If Sir has decided…”

            “Sir _has_ decided as a matter of fact,” he said with sudden nastiness. And he placed his hat on his head rather firmly, looking back over his shoulder at Douglas and flicking the brim with a finger, meaning clearly that _he_ was the captain, and _he_ got to make the decisions.

            That would be irritating no matter what the circumstances.

            “Oh, _come_ on. What is _wrong_ with you?”

            He watched Martin’s shoulders pull inward in a cringe ahead of him. Martin didn’t look back but sounded almost apologetic when he said, “Douglas, just go. Please. Please go. They’re going to be waiting.” By then Martin had reached his van and was rifling frantically through his flight bag for the keys. “And I really… I would rather just…just… I don’t want…or… You know, it doesn’t… Well, it’s probably…”

            “If you could pick any one of the above sentences and finish it, that might be very helpful,” he said dryly, feeling his sudden irritation thaw at the sight before him. Martin really was upset. Douglas would never have thought it would be so. But he _really_ was. And it perhaps _should_ have been possible to remain annoyed at someone so upset apparently by the prospect of Douglas leaving. But as it turned out, it wasn’t.

            Martin finally fished the keys out and managed to get the door unlocked with minimal fumbling. He actually let out a relieved and likely inadvertent “Ha!” as he got the door open, like it was a victory. He tossed his things across into the passenger seat and followed them with his hat. “Oh, sorry. Goodnight, Douglas.” He went to take his seat behind the wheel, but Douglas caught his arm a bit above the elbow.

            “Wait a minute, Martin. I’m _trying_ to talk to you. This is silly. If you’d only…”

            Martin tried irritably to tug away. “Let go of my arm.” And Douglas could see it. _Like a bottle of orange Tango._

            “Martin…”

            “I _mean_ it, Douglas.” Martin’s face was going red, and he began to struggle in earnest then. “Let _go_.”

            _Oh, for the love…_ Douglas caught hold of his other arm and gave him one short shake. “ _Martin_. You’re overreacting. You don’t need to. All I wanted to tell you is that I'm…”

            “I _know_ what you want to tell me, Douglas!” he all but shouted, and pushed back out of Douglas’s grip until he’d backed himself up against the side of the van. His fists were clenched, face still flushed that angry red. “So just, just stop! I _know_. All right? I know I’m not _supposed_ to know, but I know, and I wish you’d just stop trying to say it. If you want to take the others out to dinner to give the grand, happy announcement, make a party of it, _fine_ , but I don’t…I don’t want to _hear_ it. All right? And I know that not hearing it won’t…won’t matter. At all. And it’s just…” He bit off and shook his head, the fight going out of him a bit. Still angry, but more angry with himself it seemed than anyone else. He pushed his hands roughly through ginger curls. The picture of frustration.

            “Ugh, I...I’m being childish and stupid, I know, and I don’t _want_ to be this way. I don’t. I should be happy for you. I understand that. A good friend, a good _co-worker,_ would be happy for you. And I want to be, really, I do. I really, really want to be. I’m trying, I…I _would_ be. Only I just…I’m not…not…”

            “You’re not _what_?” Douglas demanded, and he hadn’t meant to cut in, but the boy really needed to be out with it.

            “Ready,” Martin said simply, and he seemed surprised at himself for a moment, “yet. I…I-I don't...” He hung his head low with a soft, miserable sigh. “I don’t know how to be a good captain yet,” he admitted very, very quietly, maybe only to himself.

            But Douglas heard.

            “And _you_ , you’re… I know you don't... I just thought…” Martin looked vulnerable for a moment before he changed his mind about whatever he was going to say, sucked in a quick breath and raised his head with all that put-on pride, though his eyes still didn’t look anywhere near Douglas’s face. “Nothing. Nothing. It’s stupid. Nothing. I’m just being…nothing. Sorry. Good luck. Really. All the best. I mean it, truly I do.”

            Douglas looked at him, gave a sympathetic smile the captain couldn’t see. _Ah, Martin._ He really did have to make everything difficult for himself, didn’t he. And it was awful, but there was a warmth in Douglas’s chest when he thought about this young man, his often-nemesis. Martin cared _so much_ about every trifling little thing. He cared about things Douglas would never even think to notice. Every rule, every minute detail, every font and space and character of every manual; it must be _exhausting._ But it never would’ve occurred to him that Martin might care so much about whether Douglas was there or not. Never would have occurred to him that a man like that would think he had anything to learn from a man like Douglas at all. Douglas, with his own loose interpretation of what rules he bothered to know and his unprofessional attitude and his fair to middling disdain for authority in general.

             Very much in that moment, though, Douglas was reminded of the _looks._ Those looks he'd found so irritating on their flight. Sadness and disappointment and something that looked a lot like abandonment roiling around behind those lowered, conflicted eyes. 

            “Well, thank you, Martin," he said after a moment. "I appreciate it. There’s only just the one problem, though.”

            “What’s that?” he asked dully.

            “Aside from the obvious—you really shouldn’t go listening to another man’s phone messages— _I’m not planning to leave MJN,_ " he said as clearly as he knew how. "Not at the moment anyway.”

            Martin’s eyes widened and moved, startled, to stare at Douglas. “But, but… No, but I heard. Like you said, the message. I heard it. They were giving you an interview. Douglas, you’re _good_ at interviews. If they give you the interview, they’re _going_ to give you the job. _That's how your life works._ ” 

            “Well, of course, that goes without saying,” he said easily. “But that was an old message, Martin. I never took the interview.” Thinking back to a few weeks ago, he hadn't even really considered it, had he.

            “But…Oh. _Oh_.” If Douglas had tried to blink nearly as rapidly as Martin, he feared he’d have a seizure. “Wuh…Why not?”

            Why not indeed. He shrugged. “I like being able to show up late.”

            “Carolyn hates it when you come in late.”

            “And yet I still have a job,” he smiled. _“Ergo,_ I can show up late.”

            Martin hadn’t quite managed to stop all his blinking. “So you’re…staying. Then,” he said cautiously, very nearly making it a question, and utterly failing to sound casual.

            “It would appear so.”

            “But then why… Why did you apply?”

            Because he’d only wanted to see if anyone else would be interested. If anyone else thought they could use him. Once upon a time, he could’ve had just about any job he wanted. It wasn’t that time anymore. But he’d been curious to see anyway, whether one of the cut-rate places would still take him. And if they would, there’d be something to lord over Carolyn should she ever try to pull a fast one with his salary. Not that she’d dare. And if they wouldn’t, well. No one would have to know but him, and he could keep a secret. Turned out, that time, they bit.

            So EasyJet might’ve wanted him. It was a petty ego boost. But what was that compared to Arthur who thought he was King Richard and Martin who’d read everything ever written on piloting an aircraft and, even while the rest of the world would call Douglas a failure, still wanted to learn how to be a captain from _him_? There really was no contest.

            Douglas Richardson was _wanted_. And _needed_. He told himself he ought not be astonished at the discovery, as he was in fact _Douglas Richardson_. But it was in a well-worn and all-but-inaudible voice. He hadn’t realized until that moment how long it had been since he’d felt he was either one of those things.

            “To mess with Carolyn,” he answered, and his voice was light. “I seem to remember you applying, not so very long ago. Why did _you?”_

            “To practice interviewing. And…to mess with Carolyn.”

            “There it is.” Douglas grinned. “Now. As I’m assuming that whatever big, important plans you had tonight may be cancelled in favor of celebrating the fact that nothing about our dull, dreary, mindless existence is changing today, will you be riding with me to the restaurant?”

            “Mm…yes,” Captain Crieff decided, rubbing his elbow, slightly bashful now and pretending not to be.

            “This way then.” After Martin had locked his van up—as if anyone would bother stealing that heap—Douglas settled an arm across his shoulders, a little surprised Martin let him actually, and led him back toward where Carolyn and Arthur waited near their cars. Carolyn appeared indifferent, though it seemed highly likely her son had clued her in on the various goings-on of the day. And Arthur appeared relieved, though he still bounced a bit on his toes.

            He glanced at Martin, who might’ve been biting down a smile. Felt those tense, knotty shoulders that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand worlds relax just a fraction under his arm. Martin was still quite young to be a captain. All too thoroughly versed in aviation theory, yet still new to the practical aspects of flying and certainly the practical aspects of leading people.

            A thought rose unbidden, incongruous and out of nowhere—Douglas hadn’t gotten to teach his daughter how to ride a bike. Or, not really. He’d gotten her the bike, new with the basket and helmet to match. He’d assembled it neatly, attached the training wheels, and they’d spent a day together as she learned how to pedal it around and how to stop, and that had been wonderful. But he hadn’t gotten to be there when the training wheels came off. Had never gotten that moment of _letting go_ that was so famous among the parenting forums and in the sort of schmaltzy sentimental films he’d never watch. It was just an odd musing. He ought to call her tonight when he got home.

            Douglas looked at Martin again. “You owe one to Arthur, by the way,” he said out the side of his mouth.

            Martin’s face flushed again, not from anger this time. “I suppose he told you…things. I didn’t… I mean, I wasn’t… Whatever he told you, I…”

            “He did tell me things. That’s not why you owe him.”

            “Oh. What…why, why do I owe him?”

            “Because Arthur calls you ‘Skip,’” he said simply.

            Martin frowned a bit. “What’s that got to do with anything? He calls me that because I’m the captain.”

            “True. But he also calls you that because he likes it when you’re happy.”

            Martin’s eyebrows rose as he puzzled over that for a moment. Martin would be the one to leave one day, Douglas realized. Or, less of a realization so much as an understanding, really. An acknowledgement. Martin would get to go off to some other airline, a proper airline pilot with a paycheck and no second job. And Douglas would get to watch him go. When he was ready. And that was good. He wasn't ready today. Douglas, to his monumental surprise, found he wasn't ready today either.

            Douglas cleared his throat. “So anyway…you were pretty miserable, then. When you thought I was leaving.”

            “No I wasn’t.” Immediately. Predictably.

            “I don’t know. You seemed pretty disconsolate.”

            “Shut up, Douglas.”

            “Brokenhearted, really.”

            “Of _course_ _not_. Never. I’ve got a…splinter,” he rationalized pompously. “Under my nail bed.”

            “Is that so?” Douglas fairly drawled.

            “Yes. It’s quite painful and annoying. I call it ‘Douglas.’”

            Douglas laughed out loud and for _once_ let him have the last word. By that time, they’d reached Carolyn and Arthur anyway. “So dinner then?” he asked his entirely ridiculous group of colleagues. _Sort of like a family_ , Arthur had said, or something to that effect. Impossible. “And, because we’re all grown adults, apparently _go karts_.”

            Arthur actually jumped off the ground. “Hooray!”

            “Carolyn,” Douglas announced. “I believe dinner is on you tonight.”

            “Douglas,” she matched his announcement. “At last you’ve said something funny.”

            He smiled faintly. “Mmhm. Oh, Carolyn? Are you sure you wouldn’t like to, I don’t know, take a nice _nap_ before we go? Might make you a bit happier. And _shinier_.”

            “What on earth are you on about?” she demanded, and at his side Martin glanced up at him, likewise bewildered.

            Douglas only winked at Arthur, who, surprised and delighted to be in on the joke, covered his mouth as he giggled.


End file.
